My Brother's Keeper
by quantum221b
Summary: Sherlock had asked quietly, "I need to know…I need to know what to do about John." Black hair fell like a veil over her eyes as Eurus tilted her head forward. "Let's play a game, Sherlock."
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes did not deal well with doubt.

He leaned back on the hard seat as the rotors of the helicopter spun at increasingly faster speeds, the corners of the ear-muffs digging into his reddened earlobes as he stared outside. It was cold and rainy and dreary. Much like his inner landscape as he pondered on Mrs Hudson's monologue earlier in the day.

 _She'd been dusting, frail body moving with nervous energy as always. "Has to work full time just to pay the mortgage and pay the bills and day care. Day care doesn't come cheap nowadays, does it though? He has to drop Rosie first and catch the bus to commute to work and then pick her up after school. You know how much he hates domestic routine? Almost as much as you do!" She waved the mop vaguely. "Run ragged he is. He doesn't listen. I_ _ **told**_ _him marriage will change things. I_ _ **told**_ _him having children will change things. Expects life to carry on the way it was. One cannot go back, you know? He's made his bed, now he has to lie on it."_

 _She bent over the desk to stack the assorted papers. "I think he was hinting at perhaps coming back to 221B. Well, I wasn't about to encourage that. Not without knowing what_ _ **you**_ _wanted!" She nodded firmly. "I just pretended to be even more flustered than usual. He bought it! A bit on the nose, he was too. Smelled a wee bit of alcohol. I hope he has it under control…." She met Sherlock's thoughtful eyes with her own. Her face held no suggestion. Merely a question. For that he was immeasurably grateful._

He leaned his weary head against the glass of the helicopter window and stared blankly outside at the grey monochrome of the sky and pondered. _What to do about John Watson?_

No. Sherlock Holmes had never dealt well with doubt.

* * *

He stepped into the now familiar window-less room with its glass cage within which sat his incarcerated sister. _Sister_. He was still coming to grips with the term. His shoes crunched and echoed in the silence of the room as he gazed at the seated still figure of Eurus. Beautiful. Haunted. Brilliant. Sister.

She looked up calmly and slowly rose to her feet. He dropped his bag and stood, hands loose by his sides, palms open as he allowed her scrutiny. She stared for a few moments.

Silently she went to the corner to pick up her violin and tucked it under her chin with a flick of her long hair, eyes still locked with his. He took a deep breath and bent down to open the zipper of his bag. Pulled the Stradivarius out. Adjusted the knobs. This room, this time, Eurus's presence had become a sanctuary over the past several visits. No complications. Just brother and sister playing music and communicating through that music and their eyes.

They began to play, swaying with gentle choreography. He closed his eyes- a further concession. Her violin echoed her gratitude as her eyes flicked over his form. Mycroft's sartorial elegance may outshine Sherlock's but he would never be able to usurp the flamboyant air of authority and beauty that Sherlock exhibited so effortlessly.

She frowned. His shoulders were tense, his grip on the bow too tight. His jaw was set and his eyes restless under closed bluish lids. His playing could never match hers but he was usually able to draw the soul out of the music. But not now. Distracted. Tired. Sleep deprived. Undecided. The look sat badly on him. On that singular evening she had spent with him as Faith Smith- even when dishevelled, drugged and tormented he had had resolution on his side.

No, this would _not_ do. She thought for a bit.

"So, do you?" she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. "Miss him?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open. Her eyebrow flickered in acknowledgement of his surprise. After all it had been months since she had spoken to him using words.

He stopped playing and watched her, eyes narrowed. The question hung between them. Keeping his eyes on her, he lowered the violin slowly, the bow hung low in his other hand. He took a deep breath as his eyes darted over her face. Deciding. _Why would you ask me this, Eurus? Can I trust you?_

"Trust is a tenuous agreement between two people; one agrees to extend it on the proviso that the other behaves in a mutually agreed upon and predictable manner," she said drily, answering the unasked question she read in his expression.

His jaw clenched with annoyance as he hesitated for a long moment. He put the violin and bow down on his empty bag and then straightened to his full height, hands clasped behind his back, busy brain racing to decipher where Eurus was leading. She placed her violin and bow gently down on the floor and straightened back up. Mirroring his previous posture she stood loose and open, looking back steadily, allowing the side of her mouth to twitch in the spirit of comradeship. _Read me, brother mine. I have nothing to hide._

"You are not my therapist." The baritone reverberated in the empty room.

"No. No validation here." She cocked her head slightly. "Sorry."

He snorted softly.

"You are not a priest."

"Sorry, no. No benediction either." Flippant. "What am I, dear brother? Right here, right now?"

His mouth pursed, nostrils flaring at the challenge in her voice.

"What is it that you value above all else in this world, Sherlock?" She egged him on.

"My logical analytical intellect," he answered.

Head inclined slightly, she added, "Unobscured by emotion. Objective."

His eyelids fluttered briefly as he took a sharp breath. "A mirror?"

A trace of pride in her voice as she echoed, "A mirror. Right here. Right now. That's what I am." Gracefully lowering herself on the floor, she tucked her knees beneath her.

"So, do you miss him?"

As though coming to a decision, Sherlock walked up to the far wall and lowered himself to the floor as well. Leaning against the wall, his long legs stretched in front. He tilted his head to the ceiling as he thought.

Eurus waited patiently.

"Yes. He was the only one who saw….." he broke off and sighed.

His fists unclenched, something in him set free at the admission. Still staring at the ceiling, "We exist as innumerable facets on the surface of a crystal. Each person perceives us differently. The accumulation of countless perceptions creates the persona. Not who we are but merely a illusion."

Eurus said, "The perceptions of the one seemingly looking at you is in fact a mirror of how they perceive themselves."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "While what we truly are within stays unseen." He swallowed. "He saw ME."

Eurus stayed still, observing. Sherlock's face looked wistful, troubled as his blank eyes stared at the ceiling. Resigned. _No, no, NO._

Black hair fell like a veil over her eyes as Eurus tilted her head forward.

"Let's play a game, Sherlock."

He straightened his head and looked at her, gaze sharp.

"Five words. I give you a name. You give me five words to describe how they perceive you and how you perceive them."

Sherlock snorted. "Word association? I thought you were not my therapist."

"Not the first words that come to mind. Not to unearth rooted subconscious connections. Reflection. Deliberation. The helicopter is not due to leave for another two and half hours. Take your time."

"And what are the rules of this game?"

"Only one. No shields. You show and say exactly what you think."

Sherlock looked down briefly as he considered for a long moment.

Finally he asked, "What would I gain?"

"What _could_ you lose?"

Sherlock's expression softened as he looked at her. _Family is all we have in the end_ , _Mycroft Holmes,_ Mrs Hudson had said a long time ago.

 _John stays…..This is family…..That's why he stays…._ His face hardened.

He looked at Eurus. His game face was on.

"Very well." He jerked his chin up. "I'll play your game."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs Hudson," she said.

Eurus observed as Sherlock's mouth twitched with fondness. She waited.

She well remembered the fussing, elderly woman she'd seen during that evening she'd spent with Sherlock as Faith; the worry in her eyes and her voice. She well remembered the feisty lady who'd put Sherlock in the boot of her sports car, speeding with the police in hot pursuit as she brought the car to a screeching halt on the front lawn of John's psychologist. Who had emotionally manhandled John Watson towards Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he permitted carefully catalogued memories to come out of the dusty chambers of the emotional rooms of his mind palace into the antechambers.

A dingy café in South Florida. A frightened emaciated woman, holding one elbow gingerly close to her chest, her face half covered with a scarf which he had gently lifted to reveal a severely bruised face, black puffy eyelids, swollen jaw. Trauma. A relieved woman burrowing into his chest as she murmured in disbelief, " _I cannot believe I'm wishing him dead._ " Pragmatic. Desperate eyes as they took in the decrepit tiny flat on Montagne Street and the half-naked, drugged young man staring back at her vacantly as she said, " _I need you to come to Baker Street, Sherlock. I need protection. It's so big and empty and I feel so afraid._ " Gratitude. Accusing voice as she touched scratched tables, thumbs in the fridge, bullets in the walls. Aggravation. " _You're burning up. Get in the boot. John's more likely to check you out if you make him feel sorry for you."_ Ally. Frantic voice liaising with Mycroft as he urinated blood for weeks after John's beating, as he shivered and shook after another bout of kidney infection. Maternal love. Gentle hands applying soothing balm to his bruised flank as her cold resolute voice said, " _This. This I cannot forgive. He can come here as long as you wish. But do not ask more from me than I can give_."  Loyalty.

He looked at Eurus's fascinated eyes.

" _Love. Loyalty. Acceptance. Priority. Aggravation."_

"Greg Lestrade."

Eurus watched as indulgence crept into Sherlock's expressive eyes. She had seen Lestrade on that night at Musgrave. Good looking, calm, controlled. The deferential attitude of his sub-ordinates. The concern in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked. Oh this was too easy! He remembered. Their first case. Prematurely silvered hair sticking up as a harried voice tried to mobilize his detectives. The awe and suspicion as he had listened to Sherlock's train of deductions. Wonder. Forced to fall back on Sherlock's brilliance when anything out of the ordinary struck and resisting it all the way initially. Stubborn. Wavering confidence in the aftermath of the Sally-and-Anderson conspiracy theory. Doubt. Self-blame and remorse after Sherlock jumped. Guilt. The genuine spontaneous and unexpected embrace of all that he was upon his return. Affection. Unswerving obedience at John's wedding. Trust. Simple joy at Sherlock remembering his name. Respect. Watching out for him and Mycroft when required, in Baskerville and Musgrave. Friend.

He met Eurus's gaze steadily. " _Friend. Affection. Trust. Wonder. Respect."_

Eurus stayed unmoved. In a toneless voice she prompted, "Molly Hooper."

She watched Sherlock closely as her mind gathered everything she'd seen of the woman. Recollected John saying, _"I need the one person who- unlike me- learned to see through your bullshit a long time ago"_ to a cringing drugged-up Sherlock. Recalled the mousy woman who stammered as John and Sherlock rode all over her with the ambulance waiting outside. The vulnerable woman who'd finally whispered, " _Love you_ ," on the phone. Remembered Sherlock's face twisted with pure rage as he had smashed the coffin to smithereens.

"Really? You _really_ want to do this?" Angry eyes flashed at her.

"Those are the rules." Eurus stayed unmoved.

Sherlock shook himself where he sat. _Alright. Alright, dammit_. He cast his mind. Molly. Molly Hooper. Dear  sweet Molly. Who'd taken to stammering and squeaking from the first time her eyes fell on him and never stopped. Accommodating Molly. Whom he could and had manipulated for years for favours. Caught in the web of unrequited love, Molly. Who orbited around him with a desperate unspoken love. Put him on a pedestal. Expected only the best from him. Perceptive Molly. Who saw his pain and his anguish. Strong Molly. Who had kept his secrets and helped him fake his suicide. Loyal Molly. Who when looking for alternative life partners inadvertently gravitated to the closest she could find in his image. Dignified Molly. Who had refused to utter the words that would destroy her, without him saying them first. Forgiving Molly. Who had smiled sadly when explained the circumstances of his declaration and then allowed him to move on.

Eurus watched, enthralled. Sherlock looked anguished for a long time, until he sighed. And let himself say it.

" _Love. Strength. Fidelity. Forgiveness_ …" He broke off, lips slightly downturned as he added softly. " _Regret."_

"Mary Morstan."

Sherlock huffed, suddenly restless as he leaped to his feet. Not sure if he wanted to play anymore. He paced.

Eurus's eyes followed him like a pendulum. Waiting.

Sherlock paced, clenched fist in his pocket, face set. _I'll talk him around….. If you take a step further, I will shoot you….. Neither of us was the first you know….. Oh, you bastard… John Watson can never know…..Hey, Sherlock! I liked you, did I ever say? I think we're even now, okay?_

He spat out. " _Fun. Friend. Killer. Adaptable. Guilt."_

"Interesting," her voice drawled. They stared at each other for a few moments. She raised her chin.

"Irene Adler."

Her eyes widened slightly at the short burst of laughter. Twinkling eyes looked at her and her mouth softened and flickered despite herself. His pacing slowed. He stood with his hand in his pocket, staring at the floor, amused.

The Dominatrix who had brought a nation to its knees. John thinks I don't know about love. And Mycroft…. He thinks I don't know about sex. The most curious man in the world who barges into the unknown on a daily basis with nary a thought for safety; the man who only believes in the objective data deduced by his brain; the man whose worst enemy is boredom; the man who solved crimes including crimes of passion, for a living; and, this! _**This**_ was the man believed to be virginal.

John's voice suddenly rang in his ears, _"….Get yourself a piece of that."_ His jaw clenched.

He met Eurus's eyes and then lowered the shields completely.

Eurus struggled to contain an involuntary gasp as his beautiful features took on an edge of pure desire, ownership. Legs spread, head lifted, chest out, chin up, focused unblinking eye contact- pure Alpha dominance. Her lips parted slightly. No wonder they're all drawn to him, _like moths to a flame._

Sherlock smiled. He was well aware of the body language he was exhibiting. He bared his teeth. He knew where the game was leading and what was on the horizon. Well, he would win it. He _must_ win it. One way or another.

His husky baritone resonated loudly, " _Seductress. Passion. Control. Persistence."_ Eurus arched an eyebrow. His voice was gentle as he finished his list. " _Love."_

They looked at each other for a long while.

"Jim Moriarty," she said softly.

Oh how well she remembered that visit. The air of insanity clung to him like a cloak. Just another genius who wanted to be free, just like her. Lips inches apart as they swayed to music only they could hear. And for a split second she saw it—the abyss deep within her reflected in his black eyes, the terrible loneliness. They'd entranced each other as they plotted mayhem. Because the world was too tiny to hold them. And they needed to break free. Both had reached out to Sherlock-to save them. Save them. " _I am lost, help me brother._ _Save my life before my doom. I am lost without your love._ _Save my soul, seek my room."_ She hummed to herself as she stared at her brother.

Sherlock stood slouched against the wall, head upturned towards the ceiling, long neck sculpted by the sharply defined cords of his neck muscles, his eyes unfocused. His face looked….. vulnerable. Young. _**Pure**_. _Like an artist,_ Eurus thought, _thinking of his muse._ Her fingers shook on her prison clothes. She closed her fist and watched.

Sherlock was quiet for a long time, unmoving. His eyes when they finally turned to her were a naked WANT.

 _Hello, sexy! We were made for each other, Sherlock. All my life I've been looking for distractions. And you were the best distraction. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels. Truth? Truth is boring. It's an honour. I am your WEAKNESS._

His lips were downturned, " _Criminal. Genius. Hunger. Obsession_." He hung his head as a deep shuddering breath was drawn out of him. _You are me. Thank you_. _Bless you._ " _Mine._ "

He sighed as he sank back down on the floor, his knees drawn up in front of him, his elbows resting on his knees. He felt drained. Only two names remained. He knew what was to come. He wasn't sure he could play much longer.

Tired eyes looked at Eurus, his plea silent. _Please._

Eurus jerked her head briefly as she said, "Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft- _Your loss would break my heart_ \- A lifetime's worth of care and protection and bickering and snipping and exasperation and interference and incessant worry and bailing him out- _Not in the face though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society—_ ALWAYS there. Always poking his nose in, trying to keep Sherlock afloat- _Good-bye, brother mine. No flowers, by request._ Sherlock snorted softly. Would die for me several times over…

His eyes when they met Eurus's were moist, his voice gentle and deliberate, " _Love. Protection. Love. Worry. Love."_

Pained eyes met his. _Why was I left out?_

His replied. _I am here now._

Sherlock's throat moved as he swallowed, his face resigned. "Out with it, sister dear. Finish the game."

Eurus watched as his hands curled in front of his face with dread. She thought about John Hamish Watson. Combing his hair back on the bus. Texting her- texts that spoke of ennui, dissatisfaction, flirtation, guilt. The abject apathy in his voice as he said, " _I haven't seen him. No-one's seen him. He's locked himself away in his flat. God knows_ _what_ _he's up to….. I don't think about him_." The grimness on his face as he said, " _Look, I know this is difficult and I know you're being tortured, but you have to keep it together_."

Her eyes looked at Sherlock mercilessly.

"John Watson."


	3. Chapter 3

"John Watson."

Sherlock's head dropped down as he surrendered. _As you wish_.

Every thought in his mind palace was ordered, filed, sorted. He had always avoided chaos, the littering of random memories—it served no purpose except to obfuscate the truth staring right at him. This was difficult. Cutting loose. Memories mixed with sentiment. That most toxic of mixtures. A voluntary step into hell.

He had always buried pain. Deep into the bowels of his mind palace. Because pain was bad. Pain was the ultimate triumph of sentiment over reason. Mental pain, emotional anguish. He buried it, where his conscious mind could no longer reach it. Just like the memories of Victor. Of his torture in Serbia.

He had once asked the Jim Moriarty in his mind palace, in the deepest recesses of his subconscious this, " _Tell me how you did it? Tell me how you never felt pain?_ " Moriarty had replied, " _You always feel it. But you don't need to fear it._ " He'd once overcome the fear for John Watson's safety. Today, he needed to do it for himself.

So he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Went inwards. And threw open every single locked door. E **very.** **Single.** **One**. With deliberation.

Memories and impressions started flowing. An organised pipeline.

The early days and cases. John killing Hope, John losing his limp, John strapped to a bomb, John jealous of Irene, John watching as he fell to his death. And then he returned. John angry, John hitting him, John with Mary, John's wedding, Mary shooting him, John blaming him for Mary being an assassin, John forgiving Mary, John getting his face flicked, the horror on John's face as he shot Magnussen to keep John safe, John saying goodbye on the tarmac, John, John, John. John's face when Mary died, John's letter that he chose for Molly to deliver, John beating him. John, John, John.

 _We've only just met. We don't know a thing about each other-Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine. It's all fine-My friend. Colleague-That's fantastic-Sherlock, run-I made a little speech, I actually spoke to you. I asked you for one more miracle-The most human, human being-We're not naming our daughter after you- you machine….._

Water, water everywhere…. Now gushing, less controlled.

John who had never forgiven him. John who blamed him for jumping off St Bart's. John who was angry for keeping him in the dark. John who blamed him for Mary's death, John's face when he told the governor that Mary was dead- that purposeful look of blame and recrimination just under the surface. John who would always look at him with accusing eyes, resentful eyes. For his real and imaginary transgressions. For his perceived faults. For Sherlock being _himself._

Mary's voice saying _-Go to hell, Sherlock. Save John Watson._ Trembling fingers came up to press against his temples as he thought about the hell he'd put himself through- upping, upping, _upping_ the dose of the cocktail of chemicals that Billy Wiggins laid out, chasing a serial killer, ready to die _once again_ —just so that John Watson's need to be needed could be fulfilled. Just so John could find his way back home from the abyss of grief.

And then, it FLOODED.

Torrents of memories and impressions gushed out from every floor, every alcove, every room, every niche- a deluge of frightening violence swamping him from all sides, as he struggled to stay afloat. Powerless.

 _You let me grieve. How could you let me do that?-_ John blaming him for MONTHS, not talking to him for MONTHS, not allowing him to explain _-Did they know too? That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek_ -John's words loud like drumbeats- _No he's an arsehole, but it's an easy mistake_ \- The cacophony in his mind grew and grew- _Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?_ \- He flinched, hands coming up protectively as he felt the punches land, his body jerking as kicks rained down, as he felt every kick anew- _I killed his wife. Yes you did-_ John snarling, clenched fists, veins popping on his neck and forehead, flushed skin, teeth bared viciously. Punches that landed so hard that they'd scraped the skin off his knuckles. Accusing eyes glaring at him _-He'd rather have_ _anyone, but you_ _. Anyone_ -He clenched his eyes shut, as hot tears splashed on his cheeks. He clasped his hands over his head, wanting to mute the thumps and slaps. Needing to un-see the image burned into his brain- _Don't you dare. You made a vow. You swore it-_ he tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth again _\- Is this a game? A bloody game?-_ He groaned loudly as his body curled into itself protectively, trembling hands flailing around before they pressed against his face- _That's only the beginning mate_ -John who told him that he was incomplete as a human being- _romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being-_ John's humourless snarl- _So what has all this got to do with me?_ -He dug his clenched fist into his mouth as loud sobs broke out- _Because you are a liar. You lie all the time. It's like your mission_ \- No matter what he did, it was never enough. The knowledge that he could flagellate himself forever but the rage would always be simmering just below the surface, needing an outlet. Rage at jumping off a roof for John. Rage at John marrying an assassin. Rage at Mary's death. Rage. Rage. Rage- _Parting gift? Oh, that's nice. A walking stick. Yeah, it was mine….. from a long time ago-_ John's need to punish, to lash out, to blame. Anyone but himself- _You cock. Utter, utter cock._ Nothing ever acknowledged or appreciated. No matter what Sherlock did for him. Only rage. Only recrimination. Only expectation. John who had tried to make Sherlock believe that he was **DESERVING** of all the emotional and physical abuse over the years _._

An avalanche of words echoed loudly inside his head, a brutal barrage as he sobbed, broken-

 _Abuser. Taker. Colleague. Anger. Adrenaline junkie. Rage. Manipulation. Grief. Sarcasm. Cruelty. Loathing. Callous. Passive-Aggressive. Friend. Bully. Self-pity. Alcoholic. Adulterer. Contemptuous. Soldier. Jealous. Accuser. Frustrated. PTSD. Weak. Blind. Oblivious. Guilt. Aggression. Hostility. Punish. Depression. Eternal victim. Flawed. Broken. Projector. Killer. Doctor. Selfish. Coward. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser…._

As he clung to the wall, trying desperately to erase, erase, erase. _No-no-no-no- stop-stop-STOP-STOP-ENOUGH-ENOUGH…_

A friendship had died that day. A flawed "friendship" where the balance of power had insidiously and inexorably tilted more and more in one direction, such that it had finally toppled over. Only it was SO hard to let go. Let go. LET GO….

 _Fear. Defensiveness. Dread. Grief. Defeat._

Sherlock SCREAMED as he imploded- a long broken anguished cry of a fatally wounded creature in the wild- as the words in his brain banged against his skull into a crescendo…

 _ **It is what it is. And what it is, is**_ _ **SHIT**_ _ **…..**_

Eurus's fingers dug into her palms as she watched.

He lay still for a long time, shoulders moving in gentle shudders, face hidden in his arms.

She waited.

After several minutes, "Sherlock?"

Tears streamed down Sherlock's face as he slowly lifted his head, his defeated eyes met hers. Shaking his head he said in a broken voice, "I….. I can't. You win."

"Do I?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

She stood up gracefully and walked slowly right up to the glass. Her expression was stern, eyes blazing.

"All of this," she waved her hand. "For what? Look at yourself! Observe, Consultant Detective! **SEE** what I see!"

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as he cringed at first. Then he froze as he took stock.

He sat huddled against the wall, body curled up in a foetal position, legs tucked protectively under himself, shoulders hunched. His trembling hands were raised mid-air as though trying to ward off an attack. Face moist with tears, eyes smarting. Raised heart-beat, shallow rapid breathing. Lips downturned.

His eyes widened as it registered. _In God's name, what have I done to myself?_

"One more to go, Sherlock. One last one. If you get it, you win." Her tone was cajoling. "You win _everything._ "

He stared at her, stupefied. For a long while.

His eyes recovered first. Gaze getting progressively sharper. More focused. He slowly straightened up from his crouch.

Eurus stared at him unblinkingly.

"The Work."

Jim Moriarty had told her about it. The perfection that was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, on a trail. His mind. His most prized possession. Working at speeds too rapid for speech to keep up. The euphoria of the chase. Graceful body dancing in a sublime ballet as it obeyed his every command. The way his eyes lit up and his body transformed into a thing of incomparable beauty doing what it was BORN to do. Yes, Jim had told her about it. And in doing so revealed his captivation, his obsession, his passion.

Sherlock's lips parted as the word ricocheted in his brain, his eyes widened more and more.

" _Thrill._ _Purpose. Exhilaration. Pride. Satisfaction."_

Eurus noted the exact second when after saying the five words his eyes turned inwards, as Sherlock became lost in his brain as he connected the dots she'd laid out. She took a sharp breath and waited.

The pressure in his brain mounted. The words he'd played the game with now accelerating through his neurons, synapses crackling, a relentless journey as the complex maze of words unravelled. The intricate integrals differentiating at break-neck speeds into their component differentials until they collapsed into their primal functions.

 _L_ _ove. Loyalty. Acceptance. Priority. Aggravation. Friend. Affection. Trust. Wonder. Respect. Love. Strength. Fidelity. Forgiveness. Regret. Fun. Friend. Killer. Adaptable. Guilt. Seductress. Passion. Control. Persistence._ _Criminal. Genius. Hunger. Obsession. Mine. Love. Protection. Love. Worry. Love. Thrill._ _Purpose. Exhilaration. Pride. Satisfaction…._

And then-

 _Abuser. Taker. Colleague. Anger. Adrenaline junkie. Rage. Manipulation. Grief. Sarcasm. Cruelty. Loathing. Callous. Passive-Aggressive. Friend. Bully. Self-pity. Alcoholic. Adulterer. Contemptuous. Soldier. Jealous. Accuser. Frustrated. PTSD. Weak. Blind. Oblivious. Guilt. Aggression. Hostility. Punish. Depression. Eternal victim. Flawed. Broken. Projector. Killer. Doctor. Selfish. Coward. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser. Entitled. Abuser…._

 _Fear. Defensiveness. Dread. Grief. Defeat._

"Oh….OH!" His eyes stared into space as his lips parted.

" _ **OH!**_ "

Realization dawned that he'd made the classic rookie scientist mistake- that of twisting empirical facts to fit a favoured theory inevitably reaching an erroneous conclusion, due to fear that it would mean giving up years of hard work and persistence. A hypothesis that was based on a foundation so precarious that it would inevitably come crashing down.

Conclusions learned and behaviours carefully patterned from years of honing his intellect away from Sentiment, that utterly worthless and destructive of all human thoughts. Discarded for the dubious honour of becoming a "good man" in John Watson's eyes. Committing the catastrophic mistake of equating Sentiment with love, with goodness.

 _Caring is not an advantage. All lives end. All hearts are broken. The Work is all that matters to me. Without it my brain rots. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Sentiment, the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment._

He was an intellectual apex predator who had proudly survived in a world largely made up of morons and dunces by keeping himself aloof, by ruthlessly discarding Sentiment as a weakness, who chose to give glimpses of himself only to those truly deserving of it.

In trying to play the fool to fit into John Watson's image of a "good man", in trying to be what John Watson needed him to be- he'd come to believe in his own theatre, come to believe himself to be a lesser man than he was, as viewed through the prism of John Watson's defective eyes.

And then Sherlock laughed. Chuckles turning to full-on guffaws as he threw his head back, his shoulders shaking, eyes swimming in merriment. Beaten at his own game. _By Sentiment of all things, dear God in heaven!_

Eurus's eyes were manic as she watched. She thought back to Dr Watson saying, " _Why does everything have to be understandable? Why can't some things be unacceptable and we just say that?"_ Her mouth twisted into a cruel smile. _You know what is unacceptable, Dr Watson? You causing pain to Sherlock Holmes is unacceptable._ _Really_ _should have put a hole in IT when it made a funny face!_

She schooled her features as Sherlock stood up slowly. Wiped his face with his hands. Pulled his jacket down and passed a hand over it to smooth the wrinkles. Pulled at his cuffs to straighten them. Ran long fingers through his wind-blown hair. Looked up to meet Eurus's steady eyes and walked towards the glass.

She stepped closer to the glass, their eyes fixed on each other.

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering must be eliminated. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Sentiment is the opposite of reason. Emotional context will destroy you every time. I **TOLD** you that."

He stared for a long while. Finally, ever so softly…..

"I need to know. Need to know what to do….. about John."

Her eyes flashed. "Eliminate."

Brows knitted, he stepped closer. He pressed his hand on the glass in invitation.

"It will be hard."

She stepped closer till their faces were inches apart and placed her hand over Sherlock's.

"And YOU are _Sherlock Holmes_."

They stood facing each other, brother and sister, palms touching through glass, steady eyes boring into each other, minds in complete synchrony for a long moment.

Sherlock ran a contemplative tongue on his lower lip, over and over. He stepped back. Unbuttoned his jacket, folded it carefully and placed it on his bag. He sat down cross-legged.

"I need to think," he said in a calm voice.

His eyes closed.

Eurus slid down to the floor, rested her head on the glass and watched. His hands came up, palms facing inwards. Then they started to move in some form of beautiful choreography; pulling something, physically flicking away something, rising and falling, brushing away with sharp movements. On occasion the palms came together to be held in a steeple, fingers pressed against lush lips.

Fascinated eyes traced the exquisite dance. She knew what he was doing. Ordering his mind palace. Refining his thoughts and organising his rooms. Discarding what was unimportant.

Oh yes, she knew what he was doing. She's the one who'd taught him the technique after all!

Minutes passed. She sat and stared. Tirelessly.

It was an hour later that his eyes finally opened. Like clear blue crystals. He stood up and put on his jacket. Put the violin back in carefully. Picked up the bag.

Walked slowly towards the glass cage. Eurus stood up, face calm.

Tilting his head slightly, he gave her a warm smile.

"Well played, sis," he said quietly.

Her lips flickered, as she lowered her head in acknowledgement.

"You too, brother mine."

* * *

The sky had cleared. The sun shone bright. Out on the rocky beach, the helicopter stood in readiness, the rotors gleaming in the harsh glare of the sun.

Sherlock stood tall, eyes closed and face upturned towards the sun as he breathed in the sea.

Music blared from an I-pod player-

 _I want to break free_

 _I want to break free._

 _God knows, God knows I want to break free._

Sherlock smirked as he pulled his coat collar up. He squinted as he pulled his sunglasses out of his bag and put them on. Long confident strides carried him swiftly to the chopper.

The pilot asked, "Home, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded as he took a deep breath.

"Home."


	4. Chapter 4

Do consider dropping a note to let me know what you think about the resolution in this story. It is, I think, a drastically different outcome and likely (certainly) an unpopular one. And hence, I find myself desperately curious as to the reactions among the few who have read it. So please, do take the time to comment- one way or another :)

You see, I feel deeply saddened when I see what is largely being posted in fan-fiction right now. Authors have either gone silent or are choosing to largely explain John's behaviour or completely ignoring it. After Reichenbach falls there was an outpouring of stories showing John devastated and then angry and a remorseful Sherlock finally being forgiven. After Season 3, there was a profusion of stories about pining Sherlock, evil Mary and a plethora of plots to somehow get John and Sherlock in a relationship. But now….. barely anything! When John raised his hand at Sherlock in "Culmination", I punished him severely for it. I then endured reader's outrage at this. Where are such passionate readers now? Where is the outrage? Where is the debate? Why the bias? Who speaks for Sherlock?

So if you like what you've read in this story or even if you did not but found it thought-provoking - do consider leaving a review or recommending it to friends. It may give other authors the courage to write different stories, it will allow for diversity of thought and opinion, it may halt the death of a creative fandom…..

Another thing- just FYI- for those who read "Moksha" after having read "Culmination" and liked it—I am planning a sequel to Moksha at some stage. So do keep a look out :)

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, no matter your views!

* * *

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock hollered loudly as he ran up the seventeen stairs to 221B.

"In here, dear," came the muffled reply from the kitchen.

Sherlock put his bag on the sofa and removed the Stradivarius gently, putting it away with care. He flung his coat on his chair with a flamboyant flourish and walked into the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson stood crouched over the crisper tray of the open fridge, stocking fresh produce. She straightened up and turned.

Sherlock smiled as he pulled her towards him. "Come here," he said as he enveloped her in a warm embrace.

"Oh, Sherlock dear, is everything alright?" Mrs Hudson's voice was muffled against his shirt. Her arms instinctively returned the hug as she snuggled against his warmth.

Soft lips pressed down gently on her forehead, one large hand rubbing her arm up and down.

"Just fine, Mrs Hudson."

Her laugh was delighted as she gently stepped back and looked at him. "Well, I knew you'd be back from visiting Eurus just about now. The water is hot. Go on, then. Have a shower. Would you like a cup of tea for now?" She started filling the kettle with water, without waiting for his reply.

Sherlock stepped out to the living room saying, "That would be lovely, thank you."

"I'm making lamb stew for tonight. Your favourite," she called out from the kitchen.

"Sorry, I'll be out tonight," he said, switching on his laptop.

"Oh?" She came out to the living room wiping her hands with a tea towel.

He looked up and smiled.

"Perhaps tomorrow night?"

She nodded and turned. Then paused and met his eyes. "John has called twice already today. He wanted to come tonight to talk to you."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

Mrs Hudson put the tea next to Sherlock. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Let me know when you leave."

Sherlock nodded absently as he steepled his hands under his chin, fingers absently tapping against his lips. A slow smile began to creep in. He knew what to do.

Opening his email account, he began to type.

 _Lestrade,_

 _Your full name is Gregory Emerson Lestrade. You were born on the 12_ _th_ _of November, 1973, in Sussex. Your French mother Adele Lestrade passed away in 1988. Your father, Mathew Smith, whom you visit monthly, lives in a retirement home in Sussex with his two cats, Tobias and Oscar._

 _Your best friend, Adam Taylor, was killed in action in Iraq on 23_ _rd_ _March 2003._

 _You became estranged from your wife of fifteen years, Joanna- in 2010. You share joint custody of your two daughters. Iris and Bella. Iris is in year eight and wants to become an artist. Bella is giving her GCSE's this year and wants to become a psychologist._

 _You are an Arsenal fan, partial to Heineken beer, enjoy pub food particularly Shepherd's pie…._

The smile stayed on his face as he kept typing.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes's shoes squeaked as he walked over the spotless polished floor, the hermetic doors closing behind him with a resounding click.

He leaned against his umbrella as he watched Eurus.

She was sitting on the ground in her glass cage; legs pulled up, chin on her knees, her long wavy hair framing her face, rocking back and forth where she sat.

He waited silently, alert.

"You took your time," her voice echoed.

Mycroft grimaced. "Yes, well….. I was otherwise occupied."

She hummed for a while, continuing to rock where she sat.

"It's done."

He took a deep breath. It had always been hard-talking to Eurus. Often impossible to pin down her intentions, that flat toneless voice she preferred to deliver her words in, that unyielding stare that she managed without moving a muscle. He'd always felt wrong-footed.

"And how did you do it?"

She tipped her head to one side. "Don't worry. It wasn't re-programming or hypnotism or whatever else you're calling it these days."

"Then how did you do it?" He refused to back down.

Her lips slanted into a half-smile. "I held up a mirror."

He looked thoughtful.

"I see. I'd….. I'd always taught him that caring was not an advantage. That alone is what we are. Alone protects us."

She unfurled with a lithe grace and stood up straight.

"Wrong!" She took a step forward. He struggled to not take a step back. "A Holmes protects a Holmes. You were always too _slow_."

His jaw clenched.

She took another step forward and said in a sing-song voice, "Are you going to keep your word, Fat-croft?"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "Eurus, please!" He gave a long sigh and hung his head for a moment. Then, "For short periods of time to start with." He raised a warning finger. "And only if Sherlock is amenable."

She smirked as she stepped close to the glass. Mycroft's grip on his umbrella handle tightened.

"So, when are you planning to tell Sherlock?"

"About what?"

"About Jim Moriarty."

"What about him?" He tried for nonchalance.

"Don't pretend ignorance. It sits badly on you."

Mycroft huffed. "Perhaps our brother is smarter than we both give him credit for."

Eurus raised an eyebrow as he removed his mobile from his trouser pocket.

Holding it up theatrically, he read aloud—

 _ **Brother dear, tell her I said thank you. And I would like to know exactly where you are keeping Jim Moriarty. I will ask this of both of you. Eventually. First though, I need to right some errors in judgement - SH**_

Eurus smiled. A genuine smile.

"It will be interesting. Seeing them together."

Mycroft sighed, "Dear God!"

Eurus's expression was thoughtful, "They are, you know? Made for each other."

Mycroft stared. "I'm not discussing this."

Her smirk was smug.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I must leave now." He turned and walked to the door, then paused when she spoke. Her monotonous tone was chilling as she quoted Mycroft's words back to him.

" _Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another_."

He turned around, the skin over his knuckles stretched as he gripped the umbrella hard. Lying to Eurus did not even occur to him; she read him even better than Sherlock did.

"Yes, well… a lot of truths were unearthed that day. Thanks to your game. And in the months prior to that." He stepped forward, a grimace on his face. "I had rather hoped once that he would be the making of our brother…"

"Instead he broke him. Repeatedly."

Mycroft gaze drifted to the ground as he clenched his eyes shut. With a deep sigh he looked up as she continued.

"Nurse Cornish reported that John Watson left his cane. At the hospital. After he'd beaten Sherlock, rather brutally…... As a farewell gesture. Said that it was his cane, from a long time ago….." She flicked her hair back with a jerk. "The same crutch, the need for which Sherlock had once removed from his life."

The gleam in her eyes was ominous as she came up to the glass. "It's _fascinating_ , isn't it?"

Mycroft's eyes darted over her face for several long beats. He did not want to go down that rabbit hole just yet.

"Indeed." He felt unsettled. "Well, I must be leaving. And…Thank you," he said graciously, bowing his head.

"I did not do it for you," she snorted.

"No. You did it for Sherlock." Yes, Sherlock had always been her favourite. Sadness clouded his features for a brief moment, before he pulled himself to his full height. "You were truly your brother's keeper."

Pained eyes looked at Mycroft. "He fed me chips." Her eyes drifted away, tone wistful, "We walked all night. He was drugged and depressed and having flash-backs. And yet, he tried so hard. Because he thought I was about to kill myself. A stranger."

"Eurus….."

She shook her head, "No. I think it's time, don't you? For the Holmeses to look after their own?"

Mycroft stared at her for a long time. She stared steadily back, a challenge in her eyes.

 _Oh, what the hell!_

"What do you propose?"

* * *

Water dripped in fat droplets from the stubborn black curls and splashed over the faded dull-green leather of the sofa. Sherlock lay wearing his soft cotton pajamas and ratty inside-out t-shirt as the perspiration from the recent hot shower cooled on his body. One hand stroked the heaviness between his legs in languid strokes. The other rested over the mobile on his tummy, tapping idly.

He bit his lower lip as he thought.

Now that he'd decided to end his self-imposed exile into the land of celibacy, he was feeling increasingly restless. He was no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh. In fact, like a typical addict, it was an all or nothing phenomenon and he'd swung between the extremes of monk-hood and hedonism most of his life.

One option, was to visit a club or pub and pick up someone for the night. Man or woman, did not matter. He'd indulged in both in the past and enjoyed either equally. But the preliminary dance tended to get tedious. And he was impatient.

Or, he could…

He bit his lip harder.

The Woman was in London. Had been here for months now, living under an alias close to her previous home. Taking a break from her activities in the States. She'd already texted him several times.

 _What would it take to make a Dominatrix submit?_ He pictured Irene Adler naked on her knees, seductive eyes flashing as they desperately tried to mask the hunger beneath, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his riding crop... _Now that would TRULY be an interesting experiment!_

Coming to a decision, he typed quickly.

 _ **Hungry, Ms Adler? – SH**_

He stilled the hand between his legs. Pleasure deferred was pleasure intensified after all. Standing up, he stretched and walked to the window, hand still toying with the mobile. He caressed the Stradivarius with long fingers, wondering idly what tune he would play for Jim Moriarty when they met next _…. It has been years. About time, Jim!_

It was dark outside. He stared blankly. Then face grim, he began to text.

 _ **John. Mrs Hudson mentioned your concerns. Ian Traise, a former client, works as a real estate consultant in your suburb. And Nigel Rodney, a friend, is a financial planner. I'll email you their contact details.**_

His mobile pinged with Irene's distinctive text alert. He saved John's text to drafts and opened Irene's text.

 _ **Starving, Mr Holmes**_

Sherlock's laugh was triumphant. He went back to the drafts and added some more.

 _ **John. Mrs Hudson mentioned your concerns. Ian Traise, a former client, works as a real estate consultant in your suburb. And Nigel Rodney, a friend, is a financial planner. I'll email you their contact details. I'm afraid that is all I can do for now. I am busy for the next few days. See you at dinner on Sunday. Mrs Hudson has been trialling a new cake recipe for Rosamund! - SH**_

As he moved to the bedroom to get changed, his mobile pinged again.

 _ **Are you to provide satiation?**_

Sherlock raised a smug eyebrow… _Oh yes, this is going to be interesting!_

 _ **Let's have dinner – SH**_

He threw the mobile on the bed as he dressed in brisk, efficient movements. Putting on his coat, he walked up to the window again, one hand moving the curtain aside. Baker's Street was busy. Pedestrians bustling about. Cars honking. A group of teenagers had stepped out of Speedy's café. They were laughing and talking loudly. A car was parked on the opposite pavement, the driver out on the kerb busy arguing with the grim-faced police officer. _Idiot. Can't you SEE he is lying. Look at his tells!_

His city. HIS London. A sigh of contentment.

He picked up his phone. He texted.

 _ **Molly, I do love you. You are my most trusted friend and closest confidante. I measure women by your yardstick. Blinded by romantic idealism, you've lost perspective. Do not eschew this love, do not consider it inferior merely because it is not romantic. It is all the greater for its purity. Your friend-SH**_

A gentle smile graced his face as he closed the door and thundered down. Putting his coat collar up, he yelled out just as he opened the front door, the noise of the traffic loud and rambunctious.

"Good night, Mrs Hudson."

He stepped out into the cold night.


End file.
